


A Life Lost In A Moment

by Marblez



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Physical Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-29 15:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17810315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marblez/pseuds/Marblez
Summary: Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…





	1. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER ONE**

**MAY 1914**

“Last June saw Emily Davidson crushed to death beneath the hooves of the Kings horse!” the speaker cried out, his words sending a chill up and down Sybil's spine as she stood in the centre of the large crowd. “Will the summer of 1914 prove as fatal for the hopes of women? It cannot! This historic by-election can be the first step of the journey to women's equality!”

It was like he was speaking to her very soul.

Each and every word sparking a brand new flame within her frantically beating heart, her whole body began to tremble with the onslaught of emotions even as the crowd grumbled.

“If you're so keen on women's right, let a woman speak!”

If Sybil hadn't been brought up as gently as she had she would have joined in with the rousing cry that followed the brave woman's voice but as it was she remained silent, listening to every word that followed including the unfortunate scoff from one of the men.

“But why stop there? Let's get the dogs up and listen to them bark!”

Sybil frowned across at him, wishing she could speak her mind in response to his statement.

 _“At least they would speak more sense than you, sir,”_ she would have said, fixing him with her sharpest stare. _“After all, dogs are clever creatures. The same cannot be said about you.”_

Once again, though, she remained silent.

“Women!” the speaker cried out once more, drawing her attention back to where he stood at the top of the town hall steps looking a bit flustered. “Women…are thrown out of jail…”

A hand touched her elbow, startling her and drawing her attention to Branson who had obviously just fought his way through the crowd to get to her, his chauffer’s cap missing.

“Are you all right, milady?”

She couldn't help but smile broadly in response to both his question and the feeling of butterfly's she always seemed to get in her stomach whenever she heard his lilting voice.

“Isn't it exciting?” she responded with a question of her own, comforted by his strong presence between her and some of the more unruly members of the crowd, her attention returning to the passionate speaker who was attempting to continue over the rising noise.

“…only to be dragged back inside!”

_“You're an idiot!”_

“Sybil!” a familiar voice called out through the raised voices of the crowd and Sybil turned her head to find Aunt Isobel approaching her, clutching at her hat as though she feared it would be snatched from her head. “Sybil, I think it's time for Branson to take you home!”

Sybil smile dropped instantly into a frown.

No.

She wasn't ready to leave yet.

She wanted to hear everything that the speaker had to say about this particular subject.

“Not yet.”

“I think so,” Isobel insisted firmly, standing close to Sybil's other side as the crowd began to shift. “I applaud your spirit in coming and I will applaud your discretion when you leave.”

“But you agree with everything he says?” Sybil demanded, latching onto the fact that Isobel hadn't called her foolish for coming, for believing in the cause, like her parents would have.

“I do, my dear,” Isobel confirmed with a smile, reaching out to squeeze Sybil's hand comfortingly. “But I also know that if anything happens you Branson will lose his place.”

Lose his place?

Sybil turned her wide eyes towards the chauffeur, her friend and confidant.

He couldn't go.

Who would she talk to about politics and the vote and women's suffrage?

As much as she adored Gwen, her maid who had been her friend for years, she wasn't overtly political although she did have dreams of bettering herself and making something of her life, something which Sybil greatly admired her for, but she had always said she couldn't risk doing anything “too radical” for fear of losing her place at Downton.

“Better safe than sorry, milady,” Branson’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts, his arm coming to rest across her shoulders as he led her out of the now jeering crowd and out towards the main road through Ripon. “The car is just here.”

“Women must get the vote, mustn't they, Branson?” she found herself expressing somewhat breathlessly as they approached the car, removing his arm so that he could open the door and help her into the car. “Why does the Prime Minister resist the inevitable?”

“Politicians can't often recognise the changes that are inevitable,” Branson murmured logically, offering his hand to her and helping her climb into the back of the car, shutting the door softly once she was situated on the seat. “Politicians fear change above all else.”

Sybil smiled to herself, mulling his words over in her head even as he climbed into the driver’s seat, expertly started the motor and began navigating his way out of Ripon and onto the familiar country roads which would take them home to the Abbey.

“I hope you do go into politics,” she found herself blurting out. “It's a fine ambition.”

“Ambition or dream?” Branson sighed loudly from his place behind the wheel. “If I do it's not all about women and the vote for me, nor even freedom for Ireland.”

Sybil found herself leaning forwards, eager to hear his words even as she watched his face in the mirror of the car, smiling at him when he glanced up at it and their eyes met.

He truly was a very handsome man.

“It's the gap between the aristocracy and the poor and…”

He trailed of suddenly, glancing worriedly at her in the mirror as he realised what he'd said.

“And what?”

“I'm sorry,” he apologised instead of continuing with whatever passionate statement he had been about to express. “I don't mean to speak against His Lordship.”

“Why not?” Sybil asked genuinely. “You obviously don't approve of him.”

“Not as a representative of an oppressive class,” Branson eventually conceded, choosing his words carefully so as not to offend her. “But he's a good man and a decent employer.”

Sybil smiled.

She wasn't offended, not in the least, as she happened to agree with him.

Not that she'd ever tell Papa that…

“Spoken like a true politician,” she eventually murmured, smiling broadly as her words succeeded in bringing forth a chuckle from her friend. “What do I look like?”

She'd finally caught sight of her own reflection, noticing the hairs which had escaped their pins, the way her hat was crooked and the questionable stains on the sleeves of her blue coat, not doubt transferred from some of the less hygienic members of the crowd.

“Could you sneak me around the back?” she enquired hopefully, resting back against the seat as the Abbey appeared in the distance. “I should hate for Papa to see me like this.”

“Of course, milady.”

He pulled the car up as close to the servants entrance of the house as possible and, after helping her to alight from the vehicle, bid her farewell which might have been considered too familiar to be between a servant and his employer but she didn't mind before manoeuvring the car into the garage with a skill which told of years and years of practise.

Turning away from the sight she opened the door and slipped inside, hoping that her journey through the servant’s halls would go unnoticed but sadly that wasn't the case.

“Oh!” she exclaimed automatically as she ran headlong into William, their second footman, the candelabra he'd been holding poking her painfully in the sternum.

She hoped that wouldn't leave a bruise.

“Excuse me, milady,” William gasped, his face contorted with concern. “Are you…?”

She interrupted him before he could get any further,

“William, will you find Anna and tell her I've gone upstairs?”

He looked relieved that she wasn't injured and offered her one of his sweet smiles.

“Very good, milady.”

Hurrying up the servant’s stairs to the correct floor she removed her soiled coat before stepping out into the wide corridor, carrying it over her arm as she walked as calmly as she possibly could to her bedroom door, only relaxing once she was safely inside.

It had been such an exhilarating day!

Removing her hat pin she tossed both her hat and her coat onto her perfectly made bed and seated herself in front of her dressing table, assessing the mess that was her hair properly.

“Milady, what on earth have you been up to?” Anna gasped as she slipped into the room, her clever hands immediately getting to work on rescuing the mess that was her hair. “There, much better. Would you like me to put your coat away?”

“I'm afraid it'll need cleaning,” Sybil murmured apologetically, turning on the stool to watch the experienced housemaid as she assessed the state of the coat. “I got Branson to run me down to Ripon in order to hear some speakers and I'm afraid my coat suffered for it.”

“Nothing that won't come out with a good scrub, milady,” Anna was quick to reassure her, draping the coat over her arm. “Did you enjoy your time in Ripon, milady?”

“Oh, Anna, it was so wonderful,” she gushed happily. “The speaker was addressing the issue of whether women should be given the vote and he was so passionate about it.”

Anna looked vaguely impressed.

“It was wonderfully inspiring and I wish I could have stayed longer but Aunt Isobel insisted Branson bring me home when the crowd started to get a bit rowdy,” she sighed with a somewhat childish pout, opening one of the drawers at her dressing table and producing the collection of pamphlets Branson had procured for her on the subject. “I'm hoping to attend the bi-election itself. You won't tell anyone, will you?”

“Of course not, milady,” Anna murmured reassuringly. “If there's nothing else?”

Sybil smiled, shaking her head and watched out of the corner of her eyes as the blonde housemaid exited the bedroom, most of her attention already focused on the top pamphlet.

She'd already read them all so many times she knew them by heart but she was more than happy to sit and read them again in her window seat until it was time to dress for dinner, losing herself in the rousing words committed to paper and recalling the events of the day.

Sadly it seemed her wonderful mood was not to last.

Gwen helped her dress in one of her favourite gowns, the teal blue one with delicate lace sleeves and a beautifully embroidered belt which accentuated her narrow waist, and her hair was pinned up in a stylish fashion, diamond studded clips keeping it all under control.

Her Mama even complimented her on her outfit choice, particularly her decision to match her gloves with her shoes, the ivory colour contrasting with the blue of her dress and the simple yet elegant pearl earrings and pendant necklace.

All in all she sat down to dinner that evening in a wonderful mood.

They hadn't even finished the main course before it soured.

“I gather you went to hear the Liberal candidate today?”

No matter how nonchalantly her father appeared to sound Sybil knew he was not as calm as he appeared due to the fact that, while his words were directed towards her, his gaze remained firmly fixed elsewhere as though he couldn't bear to look at her.

“There were several speakers, actually,” she corrected him bravely. “He was the last.”

“Did he speak well?”

“I thought so.”

Small talk was so painful to maintain when you knew there was something else going on.

“But there was quite a brouhaha.”

This statement was left hanging giving Sybil no choice but to either confirm or deny his suggestion and, not wishing to outright lie to her family, she responded vaguely instead,

“You know what these things can be like.”

“I do,” her father responded softly before taking them all by surprise as he brought his knife and fork down loudly on his plate, making several of their party jump in their seats as he turned to glare across the long table at his youngest daughter. “Which is why I am astonished you should not feel it necessary to ask my permission to attend!”

Sybil not her lip, trying to prepare herself to defend her actions.

“I assume this was Branson’s scheme.”

Her eyes went wide as her father turned the blame on her innocent friend and she couldn't hold back the adamant cry which burst forth from her plump red lips,

“No!”

“I confess, I was amused at the idea of an Irish radical chauffeur,” her father pressed on as though he hadn't heard her. “But I see now I have been naïve.”

“I told Branson to take Sybil,” Cora piped up, glancing between her husband and her baby girl, offering the trembling young woman a reassuring smile even as her father cried out.

“What are you saying?!”

“Sybil needed to go to Ripon,” her mother explained and Sybil had never been more thankful for her mother’s unconditional love considering she hadn't been entirely open about just what she needed to go to Ripon for when she'd asked earlier. “I asked Branson to driver her. I thought it would be sensible, in case there was trouble.”

“I want to do some canvassing,” Sybil spoke up, hoping to draw her father’s angry gaze away from her mother even if it meant facing his wrath herself. “The by-election isn't far off.”

It worked.

“Canvassing?”

It wasn't her father who spoke up, however, but her grandmother who seemed equally as shocked as her seemingly gobsmacked Papa who currently resembled a goldfish.

“Oh, it's quite safe,” Sybil hurried to reassure them, smiling eagerly around at the somewhat stunned faces at the table. “You're in a group and you know on doors.”

“Yes, I know what canvassing is.”

It was Mary, of all people, who spoke up on her behalf next.

“I think Sybil is–”

“What? Are you canvassing too?” her grandmother demanded sharply, interrupting her eldest sister in her usual dominating manner. “Or would you rather take in washing?”

Mary, however, wasn't one to be intimidated.

“I was only going to say that Sybil is entitled to her opinions,” she concluded simply, sharing a smile with Sybil who had never been more thankful for their sisterly bond as she was then.

“No!” her grandmother exclaimed, her voice even sharper than before as she continued, “She isn't until she is married. Then her husband will tell her what her opinions are.”

Even Edith seemed to be exasperated by that while Mary sighed loudly,

“Oh, Granny!”

Sybil's previously good mood lay in tatters around her feet as she looked away from her father and grandmother, staring at her half-empty plate of food when she spoke next.

“I knew you wouldn't approve…”

“Which presumably is why you hid your plans from me.”

A hand entered her field of vision moments after her father had spoken, spiriting her plate away so that they could bring out the next course, not that she had much of an appetite left.

“Does this mean you won't be presented next month?”

Sybil's gaze rose to meet the steely gaze of her grandmother.

“Certainly not,” she responded. “Why should it?”

“Well, I doubt I'd expect to curtesy to Their Majesties in June when I'd been arrested in May,” her grandmother informed her. “But then I'm old. Things may be different now.”

“She hasn't been arrested,” her mother countered immediately. “And it wasn't a riot.”

“But it might be next time.”

It hurt that it was Edith that had spoken and Sybil couldn't stop herself from glaring at her sister, resenting the fact that she had decided to support their grandmother on this.

“There will not be a next time.”

Her father’s firm remark only made her scowl deepen.

This was not how she had envisioned her perfect day coming to a close.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I'm sorry, I appear to have turned Sybil into a bit of a spoilt brat towards the end there but don't worry, she’s going to do some quick growing up in the oncoming chapters. I know a lot of this is from the show (almost all of it actually) but it's necessary to get everything set up properly for when things go off kilter. Comments/Suggestions welcome. X


	2. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

 **IMPORTANT WARNING –** _reasonably graphic descriptions of assault/rape/non-com towards the end of this chapter so if this would upset you please skip ahead to the next chapter_

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER TWO**

**MAY 1914**

“Papa?” Sybil murmured softly as she stepped into the library where her father was busy composing his letters, her hands clasped firmly in front of her in an attempt to strengthen her resolve. “Can Branson drive me into Ripon on Friday evening?”

“I don’t think so, no,” her father replied instantly. “Not after last time.”

This was exactly what she had feared and, for the first time in her life, she mentally prepared herself to tell her beloved father an outright lie in order to get what she wanted.

“Oh, please,” she sighed, pitching her voice as pathetically as possible. “There’s a meeting of my borstal charity. I’ve missed two and I simply must be there.”

She fought to keep her facial expressions blank as her father studied her for a long moment, desperately trying not to give herself away as that would only land her in more trouble.

“You’d have to take Mary or Edith with you.”

Her response was instantaneous and unlike her reason for going out completely honest.

“Don’t make me,” she pleaded with him, taking a hesitant step forwards. “Those meetings are deadly at the best of times and you know what they’re like when they’re bored.”

Her father barely surprised a smirk.

Yes, everyone knew what Mary and Edith could be like when they were bored.

“Why are all your causes steeped in gloom?”

He finally abandoned his letter writing altogether, giving his youngest daughter his complete attention, and she let he’d onto it like a lifeline knowing this was her only hope.

She’d barely been allowed to set foot outside the house since “the incident” and when she did it had only been for walks around the garden, her father even barring her from going riding for the time being as if he were afraid she’d ride all the way to Ripon to do her bit.

Although, thinking about it, if that option had been open to her she probably would have.

And yet it was the distinct lack of options which had finally driven her to this.

“Because it’s the gloomy things that need our help,” she answered as simply and as honestly as she could. “If everything in the gardens sunny, why meddle?”

This was one of the many reasons she believed in the women getting the vote, believed in the promise of equality and the future it could hold for the supposed fairer sex.

“Well, I agree with that,” her father sighed before, as she half expected him to do all along, changing the subject. “Talking of sunny, are you looking forward to your coming Season?”

“I am, rather,” she admitted with a smile before dragging the conversation back to its original subject, refusing to be swayed. “So, it’s all right? I can go?”

“Will you be late?” her father asked, sounding significantly more resigned than before.

“I think I’ll miss dinner.”

There was a moment of silence before she was finally granted the words she longed to hear.

“Well remember to tell Branson to take a sandwich for himself.”

“I will,” she promised, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”

“You know I’ve only kept you here because I worry about you, don’t you?” her father asked softly as she turned to leave. “All sorts of horrible things can happen at those political rallies. It’s no place for a woman of any age but particularly not one as young as yourself.”

“I know, Papa,” Sybil sighed in response, glancing out of the nearest window. “I think, as the weather is so fine today, that I shall fetch my book, take a walk in the gardens and find myself a perfect spot to loose myself in the wonderful writing of Jane Austen.”

“That sounds like a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.”

She did collect her book and she did take a walk, finding a pleasantly secluded spot to stretch out on the soft grass completely surrounded by wold flowers but it wasn’t the marvellous writings of Jane Austen she devoured; it was a copy of a pamphlet published by Emmeline Pankhurst in 1908 which Branson had snuck to her that morning which she had carefully hidden between the pages of her book so that no one would come across it.

 _“The Importance of the Vote,”_ she murmured to herself as she read the title of the pamphlet. _“By Mrs. Pankhurst. A lecture delivered at the Portman Rooms, on Tuesday, March 24 th, 1908._ Oh, how wonderful. Thank you, Branson, thank you…”

It was easy for her to loose herself to the absorbing words contained within the pamphlet, her body trembling with each paragraph she devoured as her spirit was once again kindled into a flame as it had been during the passionate speech she’d heard in Ripon.

Oh, how she wished she could have been there to hear Mrs Pankhurst speak these words.

_“We may describe the vote as, first of all, a symbol, secondly, a safeguard, and thirdly, an instrument. It is a symbol of freedom, a symbol of citizenship, a symbol of liberty. It is a safeguard of all those liberties which it symbolises. And in these later days it has come to be regarded more than anything else as an instrument, something with which you can get a great many more things than our forefathers who fought for the vote ever realised as possible to get with it. It seems to me that such a thing is worth fighting for, and women today are fighting very strenuously in order to get it.”_

So enraptured with the words printed on the pages that she held was she that she almost missed the sound of the dressing gong coming from the house, and as such, was rather simply dressed for dinner that evening as she barely had enough time to change.

“Is everything alright, Sybil?” her mother enquired softly. “You were almost late to dinner.”

“I apologise,” she murmured, picking up her soup spoon. “I was so enraptured with my book that I wasn’t aware of the passage of time until I heard the dressing gong sound.”

It was such a plausible explanation that the subject was immediately dropped and they moved on to talking about the usual insipid things that came up during family dinners however by the time they retired to the drawing room the only subject anyone seemed to want to talk about was Sybil’s fast approaching presentation at court and her season.

“We really must get your presentation gown sorted, Sybil,” her mother murmured as she accepted her coffee from Thomas. “I’ll make an appointment the seamstress.”

Sybil hoped she would get her own way in terms of the style of her dress.

She understood that there were certain rules that needed to be adhered to such as the fact that the gown must be white or ivory, must be short sleeved and have a train but she hoped she would be permitted to have a reasonably stylish design rather than the traditional design she remembered her sisters being presented in, all tight corseting and frills.

“And then of course there all the gowns you’ll require for the rest of the season…”

“Mama, I’ve got enough gowns to last me the season already,” Sybil countered, aware of how much each of her new gowns would cost. “And some of those aren’t old at all.”

She was, of course, thinking of her “scandalous” pantaloons which she was determined to wear at least once during her season, preferably at her own coming out ball.

“We shall see,” her mother murmured, obviously aware of what her youngest daughter had planned. “Of course you’ll wear the family jewels for your presentation but I think a new veil and headpiece is in order. Those old ostrich feathers are starting to show their age...”

Sybil would gladly have excused herself then if she had thought she could get away with it but as it was she had to remain, politely discussing gowns and parties and “eligible young men” for almost an hour with her mother, her sisters occasionally adding a thought or criticism of their own, before eventually enough time had passed that she could leave.

“I’m afraid I’m feeling awfully tired,” she murmured, rising from her seat. “I think I shall go and read in my room for a little bit before going to sleep. Goodnight.”

“I’ll come up with you,” Edith murmured almost eagerly, rising from her own perch by the fire and making her way across to where Sybil now stood at the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my darlings.”

The two sisters accented the grand staircase in comfortable silence, bidding each other goodnight when they finally reached their bedrooms but saying nothing else.

Sybil was thankful.

She couldn’t handle a conversation with Edith just then, not with the way her sister could be once she got locked onto a subject like a horse with a bit between its teeth.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late,” Gwen mumbled as Sybil entered her bedroom, putting the finishing touches to the young woman’s bed by turning down the covers and removing the warmer.

“Not to worry,” Sybil reassured the older girl, noticing that the young housemaid appeared to be significantly more upset than the last time they had spoken. “How are you?”

Gwen grimaced, finishing with the bed and moving to help Sybil out of her dress.

“Bearing up.”

“This isn’t the end,” Sybil told her firmly, looking at the other girl in the mirror as the laces of her dress were loosened, the fabric sliding easily from her body to reveal the unpleasant corset she was forced to wear underneath. “You mustn’t give up. We’ll get there.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but you don’t get it,” Gwen bemoaned sadly, setting the dress aside carefully before getting to work unlacing Sybil’s corset. “You’re brought up to think that it’s all within your grasp, that if you want something enough it will come to you.”

Sybil had to hold back her usual sigh of relief when the corset was finally removed, sensing quite rightly that to do would not be appropriate given the current mood.

“Well, we’re not like that,” Gwen continued as she helped Sybil slip into her dressing gown, knowing that the Earls daughter could manage the rest herself. “We don’t think our dreams are bound to come true, because…because they almost never do.”

“Then that’s why we must stick together,” Sybil announced calmly as she took her place on her dressing tables stool in order to allow her friend to remove the countless pins holding her hair in place. “Your dream is my dream now, and I’ll make it come true.”

“I hope so, milady,” Gwen sighed deeply. “I hope so.”

Gwen finished the rest of her duties in silence before finally bidding Sybil goodnight and slipping from the room, taking her dress and corset with her to be properly cleaned which left Sybil alone to change from her shift into her silk nightdress, the loose fitting garment a relief after a day of being strapped inside her corset.

One day she wouldn’t allow herself to be pressured into wearing that torture device.

As it was she rescued her newest pamphlet from its hiding place and climbed between the warm sheets, eagerly finding her place and allowing the words to fill her senses once more.

~*~*~

By the time Friday finally arrived Sybil found herself unable to settle, wishing the day away as she waited for the appointed hour that she would be driven into Ripon.

She’d chosen her outfit carefully so that when she was in the crowd she wouldn’t stand out too much; a simple lilac tunic which she wore tucked into a dark grey skirt, the thick waistband greatly accentuating the narrow waist her corset gave her.

Over the top of this she planned to wear her light grey pinstriped coat and the hat she had chosen was a small violet number with only a simple ribbon as decoration.

Finally the time came for her to depart and she was positively beaming as Branson helped her into the back of the motor car, something she had to quickly hide behind her gloved hand when her mother came out to wave her off, wishing her a “pleasant meeting.”

“So what’s this meeting about, milady, if you don’t mind my asking?” Branson asked boldly a few minutes into the journey, both of them having settled into their very different seats.

“It’s a meeting of my borstal charity,” Sybil lied, slightly concerned to find that lying to her friend filled her with more guilt than lying to her parents. “It aims to help young offenders reintegrate with society upon their return from the detention centre.”

“Ah.”

“We also try to help the families of those who have been convicted,” Sybil continued with the genuine explanation of the charity, only the fact that there was meeting tonight being a lie. “Sometimes, sadly, they neither want nor accept our help but we have to try.”

Branson seemed satisfied with her explanation which only made her feel worse but if she told him where she was really going he’d get in trouble for it, this way if she was caught out for her lie he’d be able to claim, genuinely, that at he had absolutely no idea.

Entering Ripon it became easily noticeable that the town was even busier than usual, undoubtedly due to the bi-election, but luckily her usually meeting place was on the outskirts so there was no reason for Branson to suspect what her true intentions were.

“We could be some time, Branson, so why don’t you take a walk and find somewhere nice to eat your sandwiches,” she suggested as he helped her out of the car. “I know you must have brought a book to read and I can’t imagine sitting in the car will be very comfortable.”

How worrying it was that the lie slipped so easily from between her lips.

It was as though she had turned into Mary for a day, twisting the truth in order to get her own way, withholding information and altering facts until everything was just perfect.

“That sounds like a grand idea, milady,” Branson agreed, retrieving his sandwiches and book from underneath the driver’s seat before tucking his smart chauffeurs cap under his arm. “What time would you think you’ll be heading back to the Abbey?”

“Oh, not for a couple of hours at least,” Sybil responded. “Don’t worry, there’s no rush.”

She made a show of going up to the door, even pretending to knock whilst watching out of the corner of her eye as Branson strolled off down the road, his nose already buried in his book and as soon as he was out of sight she turned and hurried towards the town hall.

By the time she arrived at her destination a large crowd had already gathered and were demanding that the young man standing high on the steps get on with it, meaning that Sybil was forced to navigate her way through the crowd until she found a suitable spot.

“You can stand with us, love, if you don’t want to stand on your own,” a friendly voice called out suddenly and Sybil turned to find a small group of women wearing the district badges and sashes of the Suffragette movement and holding banners in their hands proclaiming **‘VOTES FOR WOMEN’**. “Unless you’d rather not be associated with the likes of us?”

“Quite the opposite actually,” Sybil gushed instantly, moving to join their group and taking hold of a banner. “I’d have joined the cause long ago if only my family would allow it.”

The group of women smiled warmly at her before all of their attention returned to the group of men gathered at the top of the steps, the announcer calling for silence.

“The Honourable Joseph Gerald Antsy for the Conservative and Unionist Party,” he began, his voice loud and clear even though the crowd hadn’t quite end by much. “6363 votes.”

“Votes for women!”

Sybil jumped slightly when the woman beside her cried out, shaking the banner they held between them whilst some of the crowd turned to glare at them.

So much for maintaining a low profile…

“Martin James Dillon for the Socialist Party,” the announced continued. “2741 votes.”

“Votes for women!”

This time more of them cried out and, swept along by the group, Sybil found herself raising her voice for the first time in her life, calling out the words engraved upon her soul.

“Trevor Andrew Morgan for the Liberal Party,” the young man continued. “5894 votes.”

Sybil felt her smile falter ever so slightly as she realised that her favourite hadn’t won.

“Votes for women!”

“I hereby declare that the Honourable...” the announcer faltered as several of the crowd began to protest the results loudly, some of them ever throwing things up at the small group. “…the Honourable Joseph Gerald Antsy for the Conservative and Unionist Party…”

At that moment he was actually forced to duck to avoid a bottle which instead smashed against the wall behind him, liquid spraying all over the place.

Sybil wasn’t the only one who jumped.

“Stick to your guns, girls,” the young woman who’d offered to let her join them muttered before raising her voice with the rest of the crowd. “Votes for women!”

“…is duly elected…is duly elected to serve as Member of Parliament…” the announcer was practically having to shout now in order to be heard over the very agitated crowd and Sybil felt her heart begin to race. “…Member of Parliament for the Ripon constituency.”

“Votes for women!”

Sybil was so swept up in the moment that she failed register the fact that the situation surrounding her was becoming somewhat dangerous, a group of angry men having arrived seemingly out of nowhere, determined to cause trouble and picking on anyone in their way.

By the time the first fist-fight broke out in the centre of the crowd the group of Suffragettes had already begun to scatter, disappearing between one glance and the next and leaving in experienced Sybil standing alone, still clutching the banner as violence erupted around her.

Her breath seized in her chest.

This…this wasn’t at all what she had expected to happen.

A little shouting, perhaps some shoving like before but not outright fighting.

Was this…was this what Papa had been so worried about happening?

For the first time since the idea of attending the counting of the votes had entered her head Sybil began to wonder if her father had in fact been correct, that it would have been better for her to read about it from the safety of her home rather than trying to experience it.

Sadly it was far too late for second thoughts now.

Turning to avoid two men who seemed determined to beat each other to death she attempted to make for the nearest exit of the little square and had almost made it when her arm was seized roughly in a tight grip and she was spun round to face a monster of a man.

He was obviously a labourer, his clothes worn and covered with dirt and his equally dirty face was twisted into an ugly snarl as he glared down at her own shocked face.

“Votes for women, aye?” he sneered at her, glaring at the banner which for some reason she was still clutching. “I’ll show you just what I think of votes for bloody women, girl!”

“No!” she gasped as he proceeded to drag her towards the alleyway she had been heading for, his grip on her arm so tight her skin would be mottled with bruises come the morning. “What do you think you’re doing? Let go of me! Do you have any idea who I–”

Her shrill voice was cut off when he back-handed her around the face, the force of the blow not only splitting her lip and bruising her cheek but also knocking her head into the wall with a horrifying thunk, blood bursting from her hairline and gushing down her face.

“Shut up!” he growled, his face so close to hers she could smell the foul stench of beer on his breath moments before he covered her mouth with his hand and continued to drag her along the alleyway, joining the flood of people hurrying away from the town hall.

Her head was pounding.

She felt sick and dizzy all at once and she longed for the energy to struggle against her attacker but her limbs felt like they were made of lead, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides while her feet dragged across the pavement as he hauled her along the road.

A sharp whistle sounded somewhere behind them.

The police!

They would help her!

Somehow she summoned up enough energy to begin to struggle once more but her responded by tightening his grip on both her arm and mouth whilst ducking down another alleyway, all but lifting her feet off of the ground in his haste to get them out of seat.

“I’m going to teach you a bloody lesson,” he grunted, coming to a stop suddenly in someone’s back yard, his words beginning to slur together. “Fucking women…”

Instinct forced her to fight against him as he began pulling at her clothes, ripping the fabric not only at the seams but all over in his haste to expose her body to his lecherous gaze.

She screamed, scratching at his face until another blow to her own face sent her crumpling to the filthy ground in an undignified heap, the world fading out for a long moment before finally coming back as he literally ripped her undergarments off of her vulnerable body.

He meant to…

No!

He couldn’t!

She screamed and sobbed and fought as best she could but all it took were a couple more blindingly painful blows to the face for her to lie completely limp beneath his monstrous body, her legs spread obscenely apart by his knees as he unbuttoned his coarse trousers and took something precious from her that should never have belong to him in the first place.

Her innocence…

Her maidenhood…

Her future…

She had never been so afraid in all her life, unable to fight back against him, unable to stop him, desperately wishing for help to come as her vision blacked out again and again, her head throbbing painfully even as more pains, sharp and terrifying, began to overtake her.

Her tears had been falling constantly since the attack began.

It seemed to take forever for him to finish with her, for him to fill her body in a way that only her husband should have been allowed to do before rising to his feet above her.

Something cold struck her face and it took a moment for her to realise that he had just spat on her whilst fixing his own clothing, hiding the evidence of his crimes against her.

“Should make you think twice before you leave home the next time,” he sneered down at her battered body, actually pausing to kick her in the side with his heavy boot, drawing out nothing more than a whimper from her sore throat. “Learn your fucking place, bitch.”

And then he was gone.

Moving slowly she somehow managed to push herself up into a sitting position, her half swollen eyes taking in the state of both her body and her clothes with a horrified gasp.

How…how could he have done that to her?

Why…why had he done it?

She hadn’t…she hadn’t even spoken to him…he had stopped her from leaving…

Sobbing weakly from a mixture of humiliation and pain she fixed her ruined clothes as best as she could, leaving her torn undergarments where they had fallen on the dirty ground, before slowly managing to pull herself to her feet with the aid of the rough wall behind her.

Once standing, however, the pain was almost enough to send her crumpling to the ground once more but she somehow managed to steel her resolve and began to slowly make her way back out towards the road, desperately searching for someone who could help her.

And it seemed as though God had decided to answer her prayers for ego should she bump into upon literally falling out of the alleyway but dearest Cousin Matthew.

“Excuse me – Sybil!” his polite enquiry transformed into a shocked gasp, his hands dropping his umbrella and suitcase in favour of catching hold of her body as she began to fall. “Sybil, can you hear me? Good God, what happened to you? Sybil?”

“M-Matthew…” she mumbled around her swollen and split lip. “I…there was a man…he…”

His far too knowledgeable eyes swept over her body, his expression turning stony as he came to what Sybil assumed was the correct conclusion about what had happened.

“Oh God…”

“M’sorry…m’sorry I lied…I just want to see the count…” she found herself mumbling unexpectedly, her head tilting down to rest on his shoulder. “So stupid…just wanted to…”

“Sybil, how did you get here?” Matthew asked, reaching down to pick up his suitcase and umbrella with one arm whilst cradling her body to his chest with the other. “Sybil?”

It took her a worryingly long time to come up with the answer.

“Th’car…s’on Buckland Road…” she mumbled, grunting softly as he swept her up into his arms whilst also holding on his things, already heading towards the road in question. “M’sorry…I lied…Papa…Mama…Tom…m’sorry…m’so sorry…”

Matthew hushed her as he hurried along the pavement, ignoring the shocked looks they were receiving as he felt his blood beginning to boiled with rage for what had been done to such a sweet, innocent and naïve, so very naïve, young woman.

He couldn’t believe that anyone could do such a disgusting thing to someone like Sybil, to anyone in fact and it was a fight for him not to lose control of the contents of his stomach.

Finally her turned a corner and found himself facing a familiar car with a worried looking chauffeur pacing beside it, said chauffeur crying out in shock when he caught sight of them.

“Oh, no,” Branson gasped in shock, hurrying over to take the still mumbling young woman from the lawyers arms, cradling her body to his chest. “Oh, please God, no…”

“Did you know she was going to the count?” Matthew demanded breathlessly, rubbing his arms to ease the unfamiliar ache which had followed carrying her dead weight.

“No!” Branson cried out, his shock completely genuine. “I saw her waiting to go into one of these houses, supposedly for a meeting of some charity, but when I came back I knocked and they told me there was no meeting tonight and…oh God…what happened?”

“A fight broke out after the results were announced,” Matthew explained as the two men worked to get Sybil into the car, Matthew throwing his things on the floor before taking a seat and cradling her body in his arms whilst Branson hurried to the driver’s seat. “I was avoiding the worst of it on my way home when she stumbled out of an alleyway.”

Branson started the engine, pulling away somewhat recklessly.

“We need to get her to the Cottage Hospital. Quickly,” Matthew ordered, gazing down at the young woman in his arms with a complete look of sympathy. “I…I fear she has been attacked in the worst way possible…”

Branson let out something which resembled a choked sob.

“M’sorry…” Sybil mumbled from where her face was tucked against Matthews’s neck, her hand clutching weakly at the lapel of his coat as darkness crept in on her once more. “I…”

Whatever she had been about to say was lost as the darkness suddenly seemed to swarm around her, drawing her down into the peaceful nothingness with a soft sigh.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I'm sorry! This idea was spawned from re-watching the early seasons and wondering what would have happened if one of the daughters had been attacked rather than Anna. I tried to keep it descriptive enough to get the points across but not too graphic. 


	3. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

 **IMPORTANT WARNING –** _reasonably graphic descriptions of assault/rape/non-com throughout this chapter so if this would upset you please skip ahead to the next chapter_

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER THREE**

**MAY 1914**

Inspector Vyner kept his face as blank as the job required of him as he and his Sergeant, Willis, stood beside the bed containing the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham.

They had already spoken to Doctor Clarkson, getting the specific details of the young woman’s condition from her horrified physician, to Mr Matthew Crawley who had come across her following the heinous act that they were here to investigate and to Branson, the families chauffer, who had brought her in to Ripon and was torn apart by guilt for having failed to protect her from what had happened. All three men had given as detailed a statement as they could manage, leaving nothing out of their own involvement, but only Branson could give any information of the Miss Crawley’s day before the attack happened.

She had lied about why she needed to be brought into Ripon that day.

She had attended the count without the permission of her family.

And, from what they could assume, had been caught up in the trouble that had followed.

“Miss Crawley,” he called out softly, reaching out to place a chair beside her bed so that when she cracked her badly swollen eyes open to gaze up at him he could lower himself down so that her neck wouldn’t be overly stretched. “If you feel up to it we need to talk.”

Her eyes fluttered over to where Sergeant Willis was stood before returning to him.

“Of course, Inspector,” she murmured through swollen lips, her voice hoarse after the traumatising experience she had been put through. “What would you like to know?”

“We need to know everything that you did today, Miss Crawley,” he explained, nodding to his Sergeant who had his notepad and pencil ready. “So, please, begin at the beginning.”

She obeyed, sparing them no details of her morning routine, confessing to each and every lie that she told in order to achieve her aim of attending the count, placing the blame solely on her own shoulders and emphasising that Branson knew nothing of her plans. When it came to the count she recalled everything in great detail, even describing the women she had ended up standing alongside, but when it came to attack itself she seemed at a loss.

In the end he was forced to prompt her with a series of gentle questions,

“Had you spoken to your attacker before, Miss Crawley?”

“No,” the battered young woman responded, tears welling in her eyes. “Never.”

“How did he approach you?”

“He…he grabbed my arm…as I was trying to leave…” she explained, a single tear breaking free and sliding down her temple, disappearing into her hair. “I just wanted to go home…”

Her hands clutched at the sheet covering her, clenching and unclenching over and over.

“What did he look like?”

A frown settled across her brow for a moment before she answered softly,

“…he was dirty…”

Sergeant Willis noted this down even as Vyner pressed for the information they needed,

“How old was he?”

“Older than me,” she mumbled thoughtfully. “Younger than Papa.”

That wasn’t as precise as they would have liked but it was better than nothing.

It sounded as though she had been assaulted by a workman, someone who worked the land or perhaps a labourer rather than someone who worked in an office or something similar.

“What of his hair? Was it light or dark?”

“I…I can’t remember…” she all but whimpered, more tears spilling across her swollen and bruised flesh as she clenched her eyes shut. “I’m sorry…I can’t remember what colour his…”

“Its fine, Miss Crawley,” he spoke hurriedly, reaching out to cover her hands with his own, stilling the suddenly frantic clenching and unclenching. “Do you remember anything else?”

“His breath stank,” she mumbled thoughtfully. “Like…like beer…yes…beer…”

That wouldn’t be much help.

What man didn’t stink of beer on pay day which it just so happened to be?

“And…and I scratched him…”

Now _that_ was more like it.

“Where?” Vyner all but demanded, his hands tightening over hers. “Anywhere obvious?”

“His face, I think…” the poor young woman mumbled with another frown. “Yes, his face…”

Releasing his hold on her hands he looked down at her fingernails, finding them broken in a way that no refined young lady would ever allow and with dirt and most importantly blood caught underneath them. Glancing back at his Sergeant he nodded towards her hands to draw attention to the evidence before them, Willis hurriedly jotting the information down.

“I hate to ask this of you, Miss Crawley, but we require the information for our records,” Vyner proceeded, speaking gently so as not to upset her. “What did the man do to you?”

A sob burst forth from her swollen lips.

“He…he beat me…about my face and…and I hit my head on the…the wall and…”

Her hands began to move up and down her thighs, scratching herself through the cloth.

“He tore my clothes…my…my…” another sob, accompanied by a positive flood of tears as her hands now flew up to cover her face. “…my petticoat and my…my knickers…and then…”

Another sob, this one so tortured that it caused his gut to clench.

God, but he’d string the bastard that did this up by his…

“…he ruined me…I shouldn’t have…I allowed him to ruin me…”

The soft phrase, spoken from behind her hands, prompted every man in the room to react.

“No, my dear, you are not ruined.”

That was Doctor Clarkson, hurrying to reassure his patient.

“Sybil, you allowed him to do nothing!”

That was Mr Crawley, her young cousin and the heir of Downton, who moved forwards to take one of her hands, pulling it away from her face and holding it gently between his own.

“This wasn’t your fault!”

That was the chauffer, his Irish accent thicker than ever as his eyes blazed with fury.

Willis remained silent but his jaw became noticeably clenched due to his own anger.

“You need say no more,” was Vyner’s own response, his mind torturing him with an image of his own daughter who was a few years younger than the victim before him. If someone had dared to touch his Gladys in such a way he’d never make it before a judge. As it was it took everything he had to keep himself calm as he turned to face the group of men at her bedside. “Has someone sent for her family? I would like to speak with them if it’s possible.”

“I sent word when she was brought in,” Mr Crawley confirmed, stroking his thumb across the back of her knuckles as he continued to hold her hand. “They should be on their way.”

This announcement brought another sob from the young woman propped up on the bed.

“Please, Matthew, don’t let them see me like this,” she pleaded with her cousin, her breaths becoming sharper and shorter as she began to clutch at his hand. “I don’t want them to…I…”

“Sybil, it’s alright,” Mr Crawley hurried to reassure her, reaching out to cup her jawline with his free hand, even the gentlest of touches causing her to flinch. “Everything will be alright.”

“I don’t want Papa to know what…what happened…” she whimpered, sounding younger than she was as she pleaded with her cousin. “I don’t want him to be ashamed of me…”

“Your father _loves_ you, Sybil!” her cousin cried out, obviously distressed that she would think such a thing. Sadly it wasn’t uncommon in cases such as these for the victim to place and undue amount of blame on themselves, to worry that their family and friends would be equally as judgemental of them. “He would never… _could_ never be ashamed of you! _Never_!”

Her tears continued to flood down her battered face.

“He will! He _will_!” she sobbed. “And Mama…I can’t…she can’t…”

“I’m worried that this might be too distressing for her just now,” Doctor Clarkson murmured with obvious concern. “I don’t want her aggravating her injuries. Perhaps we should wait…”

“They’ll want to see her,” the young chauffeur murmured hollowly. “They’ll be worried.”

He was speaking too familiarly of his employees but none of them cared at that moment.

This did nothing to calm the poor young woman.

“I…I can’t…” she gasped out, her eyes going wide with panic. “Please…I don’t…”

“I’m going to get something to calm her down,” Doctor Clarkson announced. “Nurse!”

“What about Mary?”

The question silenced Miss Crawley’s continued pleas that her parents be kept away.

Her eyes snapped up to meet those of her cousin.

“Or Edith?”

“…Mary…” the young woman agreed suddenly. “I…I want to see Mary…”

Mr Crawley nodded with obvious relief, moving out of the way when the middle-aged nurse returned with the medication that Doctor Clarkson had asked her to retrieve, allowing the doctor to get to his patient so that he could carefully administer the much needed sedative.

It was a relief to all of them when she began to relax back into the pillows, her limbs going limp as her eyelids fluttered. She didn’t fall asleep but it was a close thing and, personally, Vyner couldn’t help but wonder if it might be better for her if she did fall asleep just then.

“Excuse me, Doctor, but the Earl and his family have just arrived.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

Miss Crawley’s eyes went wide just long enough for her to remind them all,

“Just Mary.”

Her cousin nodded, squeezing her hand reassuringly as he echoed her words,

“Just Mary.”

He left then, going out to explain the situation as best he could to her family, whilst Vyner and Willis shared a silent nod, agreeing that they would leave her to the care of her cousin.

Branson, the Irish chauffeur, seemed reluctant to leave but moved obediently when Willis took hold of his elbow and lead him out of the ward, the two men moving aside to avoid the striking young woman who rushed past them. She was easily recognisable as the eldest of the three Crawley sisters, Mary, and she was quickly followed by young Mr Crawley. They were the only members of the family to pass by them, just as their victim had requested.

When they finally reached the entrance of the cottage hospital they found an all too familiar sight, for the two policeman at least; a grieving family desperately attempting to understand what had happened to their loved one, struggling to comfort each other as best they could.

It wasn’t a scene that Vyner ever expected to see this particular family in.

And yet there they were.

The Earl of Grantham, usually so composed in public, had tears in his eyes.

His wife, the American, had her face hidden in his broad chest as the sobbed weakly.

The third Crawley daughter, or rather the second, stood beside her father, her hand resting on his arm where it was wrapped around his wife’s trembling shoulders. She wasn’t pretty, not like her sisters who were both known as local beauties, but she usually had more colour in her cheeks than she did in that particular moment, her fair complexion worryingly ashen.

He hadn’t expecting the Dowager Countess to be there.

“Am I to assume that you are the policemen dealing with this… _incident_?”

“Inspector Vyner, Your Ladyship,” he confirmed, inclining his head towards the Dowager Countess before turning his attention to the Earl of Grantham who had turned his head towards him. “This is Sergeant Willis and we shall be dealing with all aspects of this case.”

“Case,” his social superior repeated hollowly, removing his arm from around his wife so that he could pull his daughter in to his side as both women let out an undignified whimper of distress. “Good. Yes. I trust that you shall find the blaggard that did this to our little girl?”

“We shall do everything we can to find the culprit,” Vyner offered up, being careful not to make any promises that he might not be able to keep. He’d learned the hard way years ago that promises were dangerous business. “Now, if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

“Of course,” the Earl of Grantham agreed softly. “What would you like to know?”

They gathered every piece of information they could.

They spoke to numerous people who had been at the count but none had recalled seeing the attack on Miss Crawley; in fact only a handful of them recalled seeing her there at all.

They put a description of her attacker out as best as they could from her statement.

They did everything they could and yet, a month later, they were forced to admit defeat.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I decided to use the policemen from when Mr Green was murdered so just imagine them as they were then but a few years younger. Comments and Suggestions welcome.


	4. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER FOUR**

**JUNE 1914**

Sybil had had such high hopes for her first London Season.

Her head had been filled with dreams inspired by what she had heard from Mary and Edith about their own, admittedly very different, experiences in regards to their first seasons.

She'd envisioned emerging triumphant after her presentation at court, she'd pictured being swarmed with invitations and dance partners, she'd hoped for music and joy and laughter.

What she had experienced was significantly different due, mostly, to the way she had changed as a person following “ _the incident in Ripon_ ” as her family had started calling it.

No one called it what it was.

It didn't help that as well as her unpredictable mood swings and uncharacteristically nervous behaviour she'd picked up some sort of sickness shortly before they left for London, leaving her stomach queasy at odd hours of the day and her body lethargic the rest of the time.

Finding the energy to smile, to make polite conversation or even to dance was becoming increasingly difficult and she was genuine looking forward to going home to Downton.

“Lady Sybil,” a distinctly masculine interrupted her thoughts and she turned to find Larry Grey standing behind her, dressed impeccably for the coming out ball that they were both attending. “I was wondering if you'd do me the honour in joining me for the next dance?”

She smiled gently up at him.

Larry had been one of her few suitors so far and by far the most persistent.

“Would you think it awful of me if I declined?” she inquired softly, placing a hand to her stomach just under the beaded band of her emerald green gown. “I'm afraid my stomach is feeling a little off this evening and I fear that twirling around might be too much for it.”

“I'm sorry to hear you're feeling unwell,” Larry murmured, appearing to be completely genuine. “Perhaps you'd like to get some air instead? We could take a stroll in the gardens?”

A quick glance behind her confirmed that her mother was close by, acting as her chaperone.

To everyone else this was simply a traditional duty for her mother to complete during her season, an out of date tradition according to some, but Sybil and her family had learned the hard way that she was now incapable of being alone with a man, be they family, friend or one of their most trusted servants. Even Mr Carson had reduced her to a quivering wreck.

“I would like that,” she responded, her stomach clenching as she forced herself to act as close to her old self as she could manage, taking his offered arm. It had been the hardest thing to do, her family insisting that no one but those closest to her should know what happened. The police had promised to keep looking for the culprit but to keep it out of the papers so that Sybil’s reputation wouldn’t be destroyed by undue prejudice. “Thank you.”

In the end the fresh air did do her some good although keeping up conversation was a challenge, particularly as Larry was laying on the charm as he always did when they met.

They spoke of many things although the emphasis was on how she was enjoying herself.

“I enjoyed my presentation at court, of course,” Sybil confirmed, thinking back on the day in question. Her gown, purchased at great expense before she had been attacked, was the subject of many conversations at the presentation ceremony due to the fact that it was cut in a modern style rather than the traditional look most of the debutantes had chosen. It was made of ivory silk which draped around her body and gathered in just above the waist, a silk sash emphasising the trimness of her corseted figure, and had flowers embroidered around the deep ‘V’ neckline. Protecting her modesty at the base of the ‘V’ was a panel of beautiful lace embroidered with golden beads which matched the band woven into her hair. Her train was also different to most of the other debutantes, shorter and narrower. If she’d been able to get away with it she’d have had no train at all but tradition still called for one. It had been her mother who insisted that she deserved new ostrich feathers, replacing the faded, wilted ones that both of her sisters had worn with a new pair of resplendent plumes. Her shoes, made of ivory satin, helped finish off the look along with the jewels that her mother chose for her to wear from the family collection. “And my own coming out ball was a success.”

“Indeed it was,” Larry agreed having attended the ball in question a couple of weeks earlier. Sybil had changed her mind about what gown to wear at the last moment, deciding that she didn’t care what anyone else thought of her so long as she was comfortable and felt safe so she’d emerged from her room in her Poiret inspired pantaloons. Her father had tutted upon seeing her but no one had argued that she should wear the pink gown they had intended for her to wear. “I believe it has become the ball to beat, as it were, for the young ladies in our social circle. There have been quite a few last minute dress changes due to your outfit…”

A gentle smile broke out across her face unbidden.

She’d already noted the sudden influx of recently commissioned and purchased outfits that had obviously been inspired by the designs of Poiret, including the young woman whose ball they were currently attending, although if Sybil were asked she would have been forced to confess that she much preferred her own blue pantaloons to any of the others she’d seen.

“Might I call on you tomorrow, Miss Crawley?” Larry enquired suddenly, interrupting her as she spoke at length of the pleasant walk she had taken a few days ago. She blinked up at him, startled by the sudden change in subject. “I’d very much like to see this walk myself.”

“Oh,” Sybil murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “Do we have plans, Mama?”

“None that can’t be broken,” her mother responded with a soft smile. “Perhaps we could make a nice outing of it, bring a picnic along. I know your sisters would enjoy such a thing.”

Larry looked somewhat put out, obviously having intended the walk he suggested to be a bit more private than the one her mother had suggested instead, but he said nothing for which Sybil was thankful; it was one thing to take a turn about the gardens of a house filled to the rafters with revellers with only her mother to chaperone them but it would be something entirely different to go for a walk through Hyde Park without her father or someone else suitably able to defend her present. Not that she didn’t trust Larry, she knew logically that he would never hurt her, but the fear that pooled in her stomach was anything by logical.

“That sounds wonderful,” she murmured, turning her attention back to the handsome young man stood beside her. His hopeful smile was met with a small one of her own, a rather poor imitation of what her smile had once been. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

Arrangement made they finished their walk around the gardens and returned to the party, Larry kissing her gloved hand politely in farewell before disappearing in search of his brother whilst Sybil returned with her mother to where Mary and Edith were sipping champagne.

Her father was stood with a group of other men of his own generation, laughing loudly.

“Where did you disappear to?”

Mary’s voice held her usual calculating tone but it was softened with genuine concern.

“Larry Grey asked me to dance but I wasn’t feeling up to it so we went for a walk in the gardens,” Sybil answered, accepting the flute of champagne her eldest sister plucked off of a passing tray for her. “Thank you. Mama came with us to act as my chaperone. It was nice…”

“Nice?” Mary repeated with obvious disbelief. “Are we talking about the same Larry Grey?”

Edith, for once, wore an expression of agreement.

“Wasn’t it Larry Grey that dipped the end of your braid into Papa’s ink well that time?” she asked, turning to offer the sister she never seemed to get on with a quizzical look. “When we were going to a wedding or something. Remember? And you got ink all over your dress.”

“Yes, it was,” the eldest of the three Crawley sisters all but growled, thinking back on the day in question and the mess that the ink had made of her new dress and the fuss that it had caused. Sybil had only a vague recollection of the event in question, given that there was a gap of four years between herself and Mary and Larry who were the same age. “And that was also the day that he put a centipede down the back of your dress so you’d scream.”

A scowl settled briefly over Edith’s face as she recalled her own embarrassment that day.

“He never did apologise, either,” Edith recalled after a moment. “To either of us.”

“Perhaps you should bring it up tomorrow during the picnic,” their mother suggested with a gentle smile, giving Sybil’s arm a gentle squeeze as her two older daughters shot her a look of confused dismay. “Mr Grey invited dear Sybil out for a walk in tomorrow and I thought it would be best if we accompanied them. Just to make sure that nothing untoward happens.”

Sybil was unsure whether the something _“untoward”_ that her mother referred to was to do with Larry behaving in a less than gentlemanly fashion or Sybil taking a turn for the worse, be that to do with her physical or mental state given that both were a bit fragile. She was equally as unsure as to whether her mother knew which eventuality she was referring to.

“Picnic?”

“Yes, a picnic,” their mother confirmed, her voice tight. “Which you will _gladly_ attend.”

Mary and Edith shared a less than enthused look.

But they did attend, as did her mother and father, and Sybil found herself incredibly grateful as her sleep that night had been tormented by the memory of what had happened to her. It left her feeling shaky, both through lack of sleep and the memories themselves, and an hour into the walk in Hyde Park she was suffering from a piercing headache leaving her struggling to keep up with his pleasant conversation. A single cucumber sandwich was all it took to end her day, her stomach rebelling immediately and so violently that she was forced to roll away from where she had been reclining beside Larry on the blanket so as not to vomit over him.

“Sybil!”

Her mother was by her side in a moment, cradling her best she could, even as Sybil let out a frantic whimper as she lost control of her stomach once more, bringing up nothing but bile.

Larry hovered awkwardly a few paces away even as they rest of her family gathered around her, Edith bringing over a glass of water for her to sip from in order to rinse out her mouth.

“Perhaps we should put the rest of our picnic on hold until Lady Sybil has recovered?”

His suggestion, the disgust he was desperately trying to conceal creeping out through his voice, was met with a round of agreements from her various family members. Sybil could only nod, offering him an embarrassed smile that she hoped conveyed her apology to him.

They ended up hailing a taxi to get her back to Downton Place as quickly as possible, her mother refusing to let go of her even once as they travelled back, and she spent the next three days ensconced in her bed. Larry called the following day to find out how she was doing, bringing flowers that were quickly arranged in a vase and brought up to her room.

She missed a coming out ball, one that she hadn’t been too enthused to attend as the young woman in question wasn’t a particular friend of hers, and an opera she had wanted to see.

It also gave her far too much time to get lost in her thoughts.

She had tried not to dwell on what had happened to her but it was never far from her mind, to the point where she had found herself absently attempting to sketch the face of the man who had attacked her when she had been penning a letter to Matthew. Unfortunately her drawing skills were sorely lacking and therefore her sketch wasn’t nearly accurate enough.

That didn’t stop her from keeping it, just in case the police ever caught her attacker.

She also spent quite a bit of time going over the conversation she had had with Mary in the hours following her attack, still trying to process the information that her sister had shared.

_“Sybil, none of us can understand what you’ve gone through today…”_

_“I was such a fool, Mary,” Sybil sobbed, tears flooding down her bruised cheeks as she clutched desperately at her sisters hand. “Papa said it could be dangerous but I thought…”_

_She whimpered loudly, her grip tightening so much that it hurt, not that Mary let on at all._

_“I thought I knew better and now…now I’m_ ruined _…”_

 _“No,” Mary gasped sharply, shifting from the seat beside the bed onto the edge of the bed itself in order to get closer to her battered sister. “No, Sybil, darling, you are not_ ruined _…”_

 _“I am,” Sybil sobbed, bordering on hysterical. “I_ am! _”_

_“Sybil, no one could possibly blame you for what happened,” Mary insisted, her own eyes filling with tears as she took in her sister’s distress. She desperately wanted to comfort her, to offer her some words that would ease her suffering but what could she possibly say? A thought struck her suddenly. There was something she could say… “What happened to you was not your fault, Sybil. Besides, if anyone is ruined in our family then I’m afraid it’s me.”_

_“…what do you mean?”_

_“You have to promise not to tell anyone,” Mary muttered quickly, pressing on before her sister could even think to answer in her dazed state. “You remember Mr Pamuk? How he died in his bed? Well, that’s not quite true. He died in_ my _bed whilst we were…whilst we…”_

_Sybil’s eyes went so wide that in another situation Mary would had deemed it adorable._

_“So you see,_ I _would be the ruined one not you. I willingly took a man into my bed before marriage and, worst luck, he died there,” she confessed, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. It was unexpected, she hadn’t been telling her sorry tale to make herself feel better. It was to help Sybil understand that what had happened to her was different. “And my darling, what happened to you was barbaric and cruel but it was in no way your fault.”_

_“…but if he died in your bed then how…?”_

_“I’m ashamed to admit I called on Anna and Mama to help me.”_

_“Mama knows?” Sybil gasped weakly, so shocked that in that moment she forgot her own troubles and the pain she was in in favour of demanding, “What did…what did she say?”_

_“She asked if he forced me, but he didn’t; I was attracted to him and he promised that no one would ever find out,” Mary answered, letting out a bitter laugh. “I was such a fool. Mama was shocked and disappointed in me, so disappointed. But she’s kept my shame a secret and had forgiven me, as best she can, although I think it will always be between us.”_

_“So we were both fools…”_

_“Yes, but only one of us should feel any guilt or shame about it,” Mary countered, stroking her thumbs across Sybil’s knuckles being careful of the scratches that marred her skin. “And that’s me, not you. Never you. I’ll repeat that as many times as it take for you to believe it.”_

Mary had repeated it, time and time again, and Sybil had slowly begun to believe her.

Well, mostly…

It wasn’t her fault, what had happened to her, at least not entirely.

But she couldn’t lay the blame entirely on her attacker.

She’d disobeyed her father.

She’d lied, to her family, to Branson.

She’d put herself into a dangerous situation.

So she was to blame, no matter what anyone else said or how many times they said it, if only for giving her vile attacker the opportunity to do what he had done to her that day.

It had helped, strangely enough, for her to come to this conclusion.

They attempted the picnic again five days after the original outing had gone awry, Larry bringing another bunch of flowers for Sybil when he joined the family at Downton Place before their party headed out to the same park as before. Much to everyone’s relief their second attempt went off without a hitch, not even the weather spoiling their day, and it brought about an invitation for Sybil to join the Grey’s for dinner the following evening.

She accepted, her mother coming along to act as chaperone.

The rest of her season was a mixture of wonderful dinners and parties and balls, most of them in the company of Larry Grey as he had taken to attaching himself to her whenever they were attending the same event, and suffering with her continued health struggles.

It wasn’t until they’d returned to Downton Abbey following the season that Daisy, of all people, put all the signs together and uttered a simple damning question to the servants,

“Miss Sybil isn’t pregnant is she?”

~ * ~

 **A/N** I owe a chunk of this chapter to one of you lovely reviewers who’s suggestion brought an end to the writer’s block which I’d become trapped in so thank you so much. I’ve got the rest of this story roughly planned out but any suggestions/requests will be considered very seriously. I will say that Sybil is in for a difficult time but will get her happy ending, I promise.


	5. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER FIVE**

**AUGUST 1914**

In all her fantasies as a young girl this was never how Sybil had pictured her wedding day.

She had never dreamed that she, the youngest of the three Crawler sisters, would be the first to marry but here she was gazing at her reflection as Anna pinned her veil in place.

Only it wasn’t her veil; it was her mothers, retrieved from the attic for the occasion.

Her “something borrowed” they had declared.

Despite being out of fashion the veil was of such a superior quality that with a couple of extra pins the two housemaids were able to create the shape that was currently popular.

Her dress, pretty as it was, was store bought and it showed despite the hasty alterations done by Anna and Gwen in order to make it appear less so. It also wasn’t very…her…she realised as she smoothing her hands over the front of her stomach but perhaps that was just as well, given the circumstances; she would’ve wanted something tighter, more in keeping with the current fashions, rather than something as loose as the dress they had selected.

On her feet she wore the blue shoes that had been purchased as part of her harem outfit, representing both the “something old” and the “something blue” in the well-known poem.

Her dress, of course, was her “something new” which just left…

“And a silver sixpence in her shoe,” Mary murmured, her usually steady voice trembling with emotion as she bent down to slip the simple coin into Sybil’s left shoe before Anna could secure to the buckle. Rising up to her full height she sighed tearfully. “Oh, Sybil…”

It hadn’t crossed any of their minds that her present condition might arise from the attack.

It should have, really, but it simply…hadn’t.

In fact it wasn’t until one of the servants, Daisy, had brought the subject up out of the blue downstairs that any of them had realised what could be causing her troublesome health…

“I’m sorry, Lady Sybil,” Clarkson had murmured regretfully after examining her having been summoned by her chalk-white mother. “But it would appear that you are indeed with child.”

Sybil had been sick for an entirely different reason that afternoon.

“…what can be done?”

“I’m afraid that terminating a pregnancy is a criminal offence,” Clarkson had answered her mother’s soft question regretfully as he carefully placed his equipment back into his bag. “I do know of a reputable institution when Lady Sybil could go to until her health improves…”

“…and the child?”

“Would be given to a family who would then raise it as their own.”

It had been the most logical solution, even Sybil in her dazed state could understand that, but the very thought of giving up her innocent child made her heart seize within her chest.

“When would she be able to…”

“I don’t want to give my baby away,” Sybil had blurted out, drowning out her mother’s soft enquiry. Everyone present had turned to stare at her in shock. “It’s not…it’s not my baby’s fault that it was created in such a…a _horrible_ way. I don’t…I can’t just…just throw it away…”

“Sybil…”

“No. I won’t let that _man_ ruin my child’s life as well as mine, Mama.”

There had only been one other option open to them after Sybil had made her opinion regarding the fate of the child she carried known; she had to find a husband. Quickly.

“Well, as far as I can tell there is only one possible candidate to rescue our darling Sybil’s reputation,” her grandmother, the Dowager Countess, had announced remarkably calmly after the family had been informed of the situation that evening. Everyone else, still very much in shock over the whole situation, turned to stare at her in confusion. “Larry Grey.”

It had made sense.

He was the only person who had made his interest in her public during her Season.

No one would bat an eye if they were to marry, although the haste of their union would no doubt bring her reputation into question no matter how hard they tried, but could she? Was it right to trap him into marriage in such a way? To ask him to accept her illegitimate child?

The decision had been taken from her in the end.

“You’ve done _what_?”

“I’ve spoken to Larry Grey,” her grandmother had announced, unaffected by her sons anger as she’d faced Sybil and her parents a couple of days later. “He has agreed to the marriage.”

“Mama!”

“We do not have the luxury of time,” her grandmother had responded with calmly, fixing first her son with her cool gaze before turning it upon Sybil. “Sybil _must_ marry before her condition becomes evident. Approaching him openly was the most logical course of action.”

“So…he knows?” Sybil murmured, her hand resting on her stomach. “About…?”

“He knows that you are with child following an attack of the most _base_ nature.”

It had been a blessing that she’d already been seated of Sybil might have collapsed set hearing it put so simply, so bluntly, and she must have made a sound of distress for she recalled her mother all but flinging herself across to join her on the sofa, hugging her.

“Mama, please…”

“He is willing to claim your child as his own, Sybil, although should it be a son he wishes to make it clear that he shall not name the child his heir,” her grandmother had pressed on, seemingly unaffected by the conversation even as Sybil gaped at her open mouthed. “Given that he is set to inherit the Baronetcy from his father I think this is a reasonable stipulation.”

“…a _reasonable stipulation?”_

“Robert, stop thinking with your heart and think with your head!”

That single outburst had reassured Sybil that despite her calm demeanour her grandmother was just as upset by the situation as the rest of them and was just doing her best to help.

“Now, Sybil, I shall have a word with Reverend Travis tomorrow about having the banns read and booking a date for the wedding. I’m sure he will be amenable to moving things along as quickly as possible once we have given a suitable donation to the church fund.”

Her grandmother had been right, of course, and following the donation the banns had been read only the one on the following Sunday although the church records stated that they had been read the required three times over the course of the past three months. Following that she was given the choice of dates for the wedding and, agreeing with her parents that the sooner the wedding took place the better, had chosen the earliest one; Tuesday 4th August.

And now here they were.

“Oh, my darling,” her mother whimpered tearfully once she was ready to go, her simple bouquet of flowers clutched in her trembling hands in front of her stomach. They, along with the cut of the dress and the tightness of her corset should keep her secret safe. “I…”

“I know, Mama,” Sybil whispered when her mother appeared to be at a loss for words. Mary and Edith, stood on either side of her in their powder blue bridesmaid gowns, seemed just as incapable of speech in that moment. All of them, Sybil included, were thinking of how different things might have been if that that hadn’t played out as it had. “We should go…”

Mary and Edith descended the grand staircase side by side, moving to join Cousin Matthew as he stood near the door to the entrance hall as Sybil followed alongside her mother. Her father was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, his eyes filled with tears as her offered her his arm. Guilt surged within her as she thought of the pain her past actions were still causing her beloved parents, her sisters; if only she hadn’t been so headstrong and foolish!

“You look beautiful, Sybil,” her father managed to choke out as he escorted her out the car when Branson was waiting to help her alight into the smart vehicle. “So like your mother…”

Placing her hand on top of the one offered to her by her friend, the families chauffeur who had almost lost his position because of her, she allowed herself to be helped into the car.

Quickly, so briefly in fact that her father didn’t notice, the hand beneath hers turned over so as to give hers a gentle squeeze before retreating, prompting her eyes to search out Tom’s.

An image flashed before her eyes, one of Tom waiting for her at the church in Larry’s place.

It caused her heart to flutter.

If only…

“To the church, please, Branson.”

Responding affirmatively as he slipped into the driver’s seat Branson started the engine and followed the other car with had been hired for the day so as to convey her mother, Mary, Edith and Cousin Matthew to the church along the long driveway and out onto the road. It didn’t take long to reach the village, the people waving as they passed by in the beribboned vehicles, and then all too soon they were at the church and all bar Sybil and her father were hurrying inside to take their places before the organ began to play the processional music.

“I am so sorry that you have been forced down a path you weren’t yet ready to tread,” her father murmured once they were alone, drawing her gaze up to his tortured expression. “I pray that this marriage brings you the happiness and security that you deserve, my darling.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Sybil responded tearfully. “And I’m sorry, too. For everything.”

They could speak no more words to each other as at the moment the opening bars of the wedding march began to blast out of the church organ, prompting them to step forward.

The ceremony itself passed uneventfully.

Larry appeared every inch the handsome young gentleman, resplendent in his morning suit, and together Sybil knew that they made a rather striking pair. They each spoke their vows, cleanly and clearly, and Sybil allowed her husband to slide her wedding ring onto her finger.

It was over all too soon, the couple sharing a chaste kiss as their guests applauded.

She was no longer Lady Sybil Crawley.

It was later that day at the reception, held on the lawn in place of the annual garden party, whilst Sybil was making the rounds with her new husband that all of their lives changed.

“Please, will you stop, please,” her fathers voice rang out, silencing music and conversations alike as everyone turned to stare at him in confusion. Even the servants stopped what they were doing inside the catering tent. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I regret that it is my sad duty, given our present circumstances, to announce that we are at war with Germany.”

~ * ~

 **A/N** I’m sorry. Sybil will get a happy ending, I promise. Just…not anytime soon if my plan is anything to go by. Whoops. And don’t worry, endgame is definitely Sybil/Tom as they’re my favourite canon pairing. Anyway, must get on with writing my other stories now. Marblez x


	6. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER –** I don’t own anything to do with Downton Abbey.

 **SUMMARY –** Sybil makes a bad decision which changes the course of her life…

 **WARNINGS –** Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Abuse (Psychological), Abuse (Physical)

 **A/N –** This story begins during S1E6 but after that it goes into an AU realm that I've created although most of the major events of the various seasons will happen…eventually…

** A LIFE LOST IN A MOMENT  
** **CHAPTER SIX**

**JANUARY 1915**

Sybil had noticed the unpleasant pressure in her lower back whilst she was getting dressed, in particular when her maid had been lacing up the maternity corset that her husband had insisted she wear in order to keep her figure as “delicate” as possible despite her condition.

She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, given that she’d had a near constant backache since entering the third trimester of her pregnancy, and it wasn’t until she’d been making her way slowly up to her room to change for dinner that she realised what was happening.

A startled gasp escaped her as she froze on the first landing of the long staircase, her hands moving to cradle the underside of her rounded stomach even as her eyes were drawn to the growing stain on the plush red carpet beneath her feet. At first she thought, to her horror, that she had lost control of her bladder but then she remembered what her Mama had said.

She hadn’t wet herself; _her waters had broken._

Her back wasn’t simply aching; _she was experiencing contractions._

Simply put; _she was in labour._

As though her body had simply been waiting for her to comprehend the seriousness of her situation the next pain that shot through her body was significantly more intense, driving her down to her knees as he hands flew out to clutch desperately at the wooden bannister.

The crippling pain lasted close to a minute and left her gasping, tears stinging in her eyes.

She didn’t dare to move, holding herself perfectly still even as panic flooded through her.

She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Clarkson had said she had another two weeks before her baby was due.

Letting go of the bannister she twisted around until she was sat awkwardly on one of the stairs, all but curled around her stomach and leaning heavily against the wall beside her.

A shaking hand stroked down the curve of her stomach.

It felt different, she realised, even with the corset restricting the “ungainly swelling.”

The pain returned, causing her to cry out in alarm and clutch at desperately at her stomach.

She wasn’t…she wasn’t _ready_ …

Tears spilling down her cheeks she realised that what she wanted more than anything in the world was her mother but that wasn’t possible; she was all the way back at Downton Abbey.

Unfortunately there was only one person she could call for in her moment of need,

“Mrs Hill!”

Her distress was so evident in her voice that the elderly housekeeper appeared at the top of the stairs faster than Sybil had been expecting, given that the woman always took her time normally, and bore a look of alarm which increased when she saw the state of her Mistress.

_“Mrs Grey!”_

 

“Please, Mrs Hill, the baby…” Sybil broke off with a sharp gasp. It wasn’t the same pain as before, more of a twinge, but it still made her eyes water. “I need help and…the doctor…”

“Let’s get you up to your room and then I’ll have one of the maids fetch the doctor.”

It was difficult work, her body wracked with pain so strong it sent her nearly crumbling to her knees every few minutes, but eventually they got her safely to her bedroom and the housekeeper quickly rang the bell to summon one of the maids before she helped Sybil to change into her nightdress. Sybil found herself inexplicably restless, wandering around her room between contractions whilst Mrs Hill dispatched the maid when she finally arrived.

The hours that followed were the longest Sybil could ever remember.

It seemed as though the pain was never going to end, only grow stronger and stronger until there was no escaping it any more. All too soon one pain blended into another, such strong pains that she was barely aware of the doctor arriving to take over her care; she wished it was Doctor Clarkson but it was the Grey family doctor instead. He was no less qualified, of course, but he lacked the connection that Clarkson had with her family after so many years.

In years to come she would look back on this important moment of her life and sometimes she would be able to remember every single detail of the day she brought her first child into the world whilst other days she would remember nothing but the pain and her growing fear.

Larry had returned home to the news that his young wife was in labour and had promptly ordered his horse to be saddled, disappearing for the rest of the day and only returning for dinner. Her labour hadn’t been over by then, unfortunately for Sybil, and so once his belly was full of the delicious food their cook had prepared he disappeared to the village pub.

He wanted nothing to do with the child entering the world that night.

Her strength was failing by the time the doctor ordered her to begin pushing, her labour having gone on for the better part of a day and night, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to do everything she could to help her child. Screams filled the room, screams that would haunt her as they reminded her of the day her child was created against her will, as she pushed and pushed and _pushed_ until finally a new cry filled the air; a child’s strong wail.

“It’s a girl, Mrs Grey,” the doctor announced somewhat breathlessly even as he fussed with the baby, cutting the umbilical cord and wrapping the child in a clean towel. “A healthy girl.”

Sybil couldn’t help but let out a sob of relief even though her work wasn’t done.

“Mrs Hill? If you’d take the child for the moment?”

It had surprised her that the normally distant housekeeper had been willing to stay with her throughout her ordeal, holding her hand and mopping the sweat from her brow, offering her comforting words when the young woman had found herself sobbing for her mother.

Now the elderly housekeeper cradled the wailing newborn as though she was the most precious thing in the world, cooing down at her and bouncing her in her arms even as the doctor helped Sybil through the final stages of her pregnancy. It warmed Sybil’s heart to the point where tears welled in the corners of her eyes, spilling over when the doctor began to check her over and clean away the blood. He then took his turn holding her newborn whilst Mrs Hill helped Sybil to change into a fresh nightdress, changed the bedsheets and then got her settled properly into bed with enough pillows to allow her to sit up enough to cradle her daughter for the first time. It was hard to believe that she had created such a perfect thing.

“Hello,” she murmured to her daughter while Mrs Hill saw the doctor out. “I’m your Mama.”

~ * ~

 **A/N** Sorry this is so short but I’ve been struggling to get this story moving forwards so just wanted to get what I could out there before I get stuck again. I have it all planned out; it’s just getting it to flow how I want it to. I should add I have never given birth to a child and whilst I did as much research as I could I hope you’ll allow me some artistic licence. X


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